Well, I blew it again. When I saw the date on my work calendar, today, I froze. It looked familiar. Slowly, my body was overtaken by that sinking feeling when you know there’s something important about the day, but you can’t remember what, and you hope you figure it out, but you also hope you don’t, because that would mean you’re about to get your ass kicked for forgetting it.
Then it hit me: my wedding anniversary…
More boost for the local green scene: In town on Thursday was the granddaddy of eco-celebrity, Robert Redford. After Clinton and Greenbuild, who’s going to stop here next? George Clooney in his Tango? DiCaprio? Knut?
To Redford’s credit, he made sure his appearance was not about his new movie, Lions for Lambs, but the Natural Resources Defense Council, of which he’s been a trustee for the past 30 years. The NRDC recently opened its Midwest office in Chicago…
Think of the worst charley horse you ever had. The mind-bendingly excruciating pain probably twisted you senseless for about 30 seconds, then it disappeared, leaving nothing but the ghost of the pain. Sarah says that her Pregnant Leg Cramps are like a six-hour charley horse—times a thousand.
This is a woman who once tore up her knee on the slopes at Steamboat, and insisted on skiing down to First Aid on one her good leg. She’s got an insane threshold for pain. I know she wouldn’t be whining if these cramps weren’t absolutely brutal…
The Clintons were in town yesterday, and I caught Bill speaking at GreenBuild, the monstrous “green” construction convention taking place right now in Chicago. I had never associated the ex-Prez with green stuff—in my mind, that was always Gore’s terrain—so I was curious what he had to say.
Turns out, a lot. Some of it was funny; some of it was boring. He’s an incredible speaker, but no one—not even Bill Clinton—sounds great when they have to introduce a ton of important people crammed onto a stage. At times, Clinton sounded like Bubba from Forrest Gump…
A Gore-Obama ticket next November may be unrealistic, but it’s fun to dream about
We were in need of a good adventure, something to get us out of the house and break up these 40 weeks. So on Sunday, we drove 223 miles for a hamburger. I had heard about a general store in Moonshine, Illinois, that served what many called the best burger in America, and Sarah, typically gung ho, piled into the car with me.
We made it 42 miles before she demanded Taco Bell and a bathroom, both of which she got. The rest of the drive was uneventful—apart from a bad omen near Rantoul, when a birthday clown driving a white Dakota passed us doing 95. As he sped past, he glanced over, his face painted into a chilling smile, and you just knew…
FROM OUR ARCHIVES: Tracking the history of a gun used in a recent Chicago shooting provides a revealing account of how guns get into criminals’ hands, and how unapproved purchases easily evade the state’s gun-control laws.
You always hear about these wonderful men who give up whatever foods their pregnant wife has to give up for nine months. I am not one of those men. I love my wife, but I also love food. If I were to be senstive, it would mean no more sushi, which contains a risk of parasites; blue cheese (listeria); coffee (miscarriage); peanut butter (allergies); tuna (mercury); rare meats (toxemia); or deli meats (more listeria). Most of these verböten foods have been eaten throughout history with no ill effects to pregnant women. (Of course, for most of history, the life expectancy was roughly 35.)
The other night, we were out to dinner at some hipster restaurant where the menu is printed in all lowercase and every waiter looks like the bass player from Weezer…
Had a primo seat on the bus today, and was enjoying my space and my sports page when I noticed an overweight woman get on. She scanned the bus, saw that there were no seats left, and picked me to stand over and sigh exaggeratedly at. Great.
Normally, I give up my seat as often as the next guy, but I was so comfortable and I had a heavy backpack and was wearing tight shoes. Why am I always the one who gives up his seat? Let that dude over there with the big hair give up his. And something about the woman’s intrinsic grumpiness rubbed me the wrong way—screw her for making me feel guilty—so I ignored her and turned up my iPod…
Sarah didn’t get the chicken pox. (Exhale . . .) Of course she didn’t. She’s a genetic freak, thank God. It was a huge relief; I’ve always been a worrier. Everyone is quick to tell me that I don’t know what true worrying is because I’ve never faced any real adversity, that I’m nothing but a minor leaguer who has never seen a big-league curveball. To which I say, some of the pitchers in Triple-A make it to the majors, too.
OK. No more baseball metaphors.
The morning after our shopping spree in Indiana, lo and behold, Sarah woke up with a belly…
